


Rag Doll

by justanothersong



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: 1940s, F/M, Flirting, Fluff, Great Depression, Illness, Pre-Canon, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Sick Character, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-11
Updated: 2017-01-11
Packaged: 2018-09-16 18:51:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9285410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justanothersong/pseuds/justanothersong
Summary: “Oh, honey,” she had said, expression soft and sad. “Steve is a sweet boy, but…”You had frowned. “But what?” you echoed.Your older sister was far less delicate than your mother. “He’s sickly,” she filled in, bouncing her infant against her chest as she walked, trying to calm the fussing baby. “Liable to make you a widow before you’re even a bride.”





	

He thought he was charismatic, leaning against your doorframe with a cajoling smile. He thought he could get you to do anything he wanted, by virtue of his big blue eyes and easy charm. When you listened to his spiel and then nodded your agreement, Bucky grinned, thinking that he had you wrapped around his little finger like so many other girls. Truth was, you had little interest in the dark-haired man at all; no, from the beginning, you’d always had eyes for his roommate, Steve.

Your mother had been warning you away from the moment they moved in.

“Oh, honey,” she had said, expression soft and sad. “Steve is a sweet boy, but…”

You had frowned. “But what?” you echoed.

Your older sister was far less delicate than your mother. “He’s sickly,” she filled in, bouncing her infant against her chest as she walked, trying to calm the fussing baby. “Liable to make you a widow before you’re even a bride.”

She would know, of course. She’d married a soldier just weeks before he left for the war; he had barely made it to the front when the telegram had come to the door, and she came home to your mother’s apartment, newly widowed with a child on the way.

But you couldn’t change how you felt. Steve was awkward, small and thin, but you knew better than anyone that the heart of a lion beat beneath that frail breast. 

 

Your family didn’t have a lot of money, your father having come home from his own time as a soldier sick and broken, lasting barely long enough to see you and your sister born, and times had often been hard. Even when things had started to look up, they had turned just enough to make it rough again: the diner where your mother worked burned down and she had to take a factory job, long hours for little pay, and then your sister had come home again, another mouth to feed and a baby on the way. You worked mornings at the library to help out, but your sister needed to be home with the baby. You wanted to go to the factory, alongside your mother, but she insisted you keep your little library job.

“A girl is only young once,” she told you, shaking her head. “I won’t have you working your fingers to the bone if I can help it.”

Still, the other girls liked to poke fun. Your clothes were hand-me-downs that you tried to mend and tailor to fit you, your shoes a little worn from long walks to avoid paying any fares. They laughed and tittered behind their hands, even though it seemed like everyone was tightening their belts for the war effort. 

When a passing man had smiled a little unkindly as you made your way home and called you a ‘rag doll’, you hadn’t even seen Steve walking up alongside you until you heard his voice, telling the man that he’d “better watch what he’s saying, and what kinda guy goes and says something so rude to a fine gal like her?”

You were pretty sure it would have come to blows if Bucky hadn’t shown up, dragging both you and Steve back to your building and complaining that he didn’t have time to be looking after one of you, let alone both.

If you hadn’t already been daydreaming about Steve’s blue eyes and warm smile, you’d certainly have had your head turned then.

 

Your sister was napping while the baby slept in the early afternoon, and you pocketed the key that Bucky had given you and picked up the two books you had checked out of the library that morning, stepping quietly as you headed across the hall. You could hear Steve coughing even as you unlocked his door.

“It’s just a bad cold,” Bucky had explained when he made his request. “Hits Stevie kinda hard, is all, leaves him laid up for a few days. You’ll check on him for me, won’t you?”

As if you would have said no.

“Steve?” you called into the quiet of the apartment. “Are you up?”

You heard shuffling coming from the bedroom and you were pretty sure you heard him swear before breaking into another coughing fit; you couldn’t help but smile a little.

The apartment layout was much the same as your own so you knew just where to find the bedroom, grabbing a battered kitchen chair to drag along with you as an afterthought. The door was only partially closed so you knocked before pushing it open completely, smiling at Steve where he lay in his bed.

“How are you feeling?” you asked.

Steve groaned, a little embarrassed. “What happened, Bucky convince you I needed someone comin’ to babysit me?” he grumbled.

“Don’t be silly,” you told him, pulling your chair up alongside his bed. “Bucky said you were feelin’ poorly, that’s all. Thought you might like a visit. Is that alright, Steve? Mind me coming by to see you?”

He stared at you a beat before flushing, casting his eyes away. “‘Course I don’t mind,” he told you, and coughed again, not as badly as before. There was a glass of water on his night table and you held it out to him. Steve accepted it gratefully and took a sip before resting it back down, sitting up a little against his pillow.

“If I’d known you were coming, I’d have made some coffee or… or gotten dressed,” Steve said, still shuffling around among his bed linens. It was clear he was still a bit embarrassed, and you suspected that he didn’t have much on beneath his sheets besides his t-shirt and drawers.

“I brought some books,” you told him, changing the subject. “Thought I might read to you some, if you like.” You held up both volumes, one Dickens and one Hawthorne.

“I can read, you know,” Steve told you with a frown, and you couldn’t help the smile that came to your face. He was awful cute, all righteous indignation and bruised ego even as he sat in his sickbed. 

“I know you can read, Steve,” you told him dryly. “Sometimes it’s just nice to have someone else doing the work, don’t you think?”

He chose the Dickens book, and you were a few chapters into Great Expectations when you noticed that his breathing had slowed and evened; he had fallen asleep. You marked your page in the book and set it on his table, in case he wanted to read more later, and stood to leave.

On a whim and sudden wave of courage, you leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to his temple, then scurried towards the door. You hadn’t quite stepped out when you heard him turn in his sleep and mumble your name.

You grinned as you walked the short route home across the hall.

 

The next day, you practically raced home from the library, tiptoeing inside your apartment to drop your sweater and your purse, careful not to wake your sister. The baby had taken to an afternoon nap routine and it served you well, allowing you to sneak away to see Steve without the lecture that you knew you’d hear if your sister knew.

There was coffee perking on the stovetop and Steve was still in his bed, eyes eagerly on the open bedroom doorway, waiting for you.

You smiled when you saw him, and he grinned in return.

You talked for a good long while before you took to reading, and it was early evening before you were sneaking back home. Your sister eyed you suspiciously but said nothing as you took the baby from her arms and told her to have a bath or something while you watched the little one.

 

Then came Sunday morning, when you didn’t have to work and your mother was able to sleep for the first time that week. Your sister was feeding the baby in the kitchen as you tried to step lightly towards the door.

“Tell Steve I hope he feels better soon,” she said quietly.

You froze at the doorframe, waiting for her to continue. When she didn’t, you said, “I will,” and hurried out the door.

 

Steve was waiting for you. You could tell he was feeling better, his eyes bright and his smile easy. You reached out a hand when you took your seat beside his bed, resting a palm against his forehead.

“I think you may just have this cold licked, Steve,” you told him with a grin.

“Pity for me, then,” he responded with a grin of his own. “I think I’ll miss seein’ you come by like this. I’ve… it’s been nice.”

You couldn’t help your blush. “It has,” you agreed quietly.

The room grew quiet and you felt something between you, an electrical charge to the air that had been an undercurrent for a time but was now strong and nearly palpable. It hadn’t escaped your notice when, the day prior, you had dropped your book and as you knelt to retrieve, Steve’s eyes had drifted down the front of your blouse. You hadn’t been at all offended; rather, it had set a giddy spark in your chest, realizing that he even thought of you that way.

You wondered now, what he might think of a girl who made the first move.

“You kissed me,” he said quietly, startling you out of your thoughts. Your eyes met his, lips just gently parted in surprise, and his gazed tracked the movement. “Before you left, every time you came. You kissed me, right here,” Steve went on, raising a hand to his forehead.

Warmth creeped into your cheeks, red and rosy as if you shared the fever Steve had carried only days before. “I thought you were asleep,” you mumbled, embarrassed.

“I was, near enough,” Steve said, the ghost of a smile playing across his lips. His blue eyes were bright and lively, not with humor but with something else. You thought perhaps you had a good idea what it was.

 

Steve had to prop himself up against his pillows, pushing off the mattress with his elbows before reaching to slide his long fingers down the side of your cheek. You loved his hands, long elegant artist’s hands, and couldn’t stop yourself from sliding your own palm against it.

He was so gently when he kissed you, lips soft and plush against your own, moving with a delicacy that made you feel suddenly revered and fragile, in a way you’d never felt before. You were a rag doll, after all, poor but hardy; you weren’t like the other girls, demure and graceful and soft around the edges. But Steve’s fingers carding through your hair and the quiet sighs drifting from his chest as he kissed you made that all seem unimportant; you felt wanted. Needed. Maybe even loved.

Steve seemed surprised when you guided his hand to the buttons on your blouse but, spying the look on your face, he smiled and kissed your deeply, letting his hands wander with your very enthusiastic permission.

 

You crossed the hall to head home just as Bucky was returning, his flirty smile slipping into an open mouth and raised eyebrows when he took in your disheveled state.

“Hello, Bucky!” you called cheerfully, laughing as you slipped inside your family’s apartment.

Your mother’s market basket was missing from its place in the kitchen, so you knew she must have gone out, but your sister was sitting in the rocking chair, humming softly as she nursed the baby. It took only a glance at you, your hair messy and your blouse mis-buttoned with a flushed and happy smile on your face, for her to know exactly what you had been up to, and she just shook her head.

It was impossible to miss the small smile she quirked, even as she shook her head.

“Young love,” you heard her mutter, and you grinned.


End file.
